1. "Now, Jack," cried Thames, warmly grasping Sheppard's hand, "you are my friend again. But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors. Taken altogether, his physiognomy resembled one of those vagabond heads which Murillo delighted to paint, and for which Guzman d'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, or Estevanillo Gonzalez might have sat:—faces that almost make one in love with roguery, they seem so full of vivacity and enjoyment. Why had she married him, off-hand, like that? She did not love him, or he knew nothing of love signs. She was lovely, painted like the porcelain doll he had always wanted her to be.
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